


The Language of the Flowers

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Multi, Other, boy i sure did it this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: want to read this porn i started writing about the 8 other classes running a train on the pyro





	

Acacia

The scout was first, of course -- the closest to your own age, the closest to you at the bottom of the hierarchy, and the closest to you, perhaps, platonically -- the two of you sitting close beside each other in the nest built up of quilts and the couchs cushions on the commons floor -- his hands folded chastely in his lap, your cheek turned to touch your shoulder (ashamed of the nakedness of being unmasked) kids can do nothing but grin timidly in each others direction for a full minute until the demolitions man tosses a wad of tissue and tells you on no uncertain terms to get on with it.

So you kiss, a close-mouthed smack, like children. The scouts hand comes to rest awkwardly at your shoulder. You meet his eyes and your smiles touch. He is very pink.

"Did you ever kiss anyone before?" he asks, and you hear the engineer laughing where he has set up comfortably on a wood box of beer in a corner of the room. The scout seems embarrassed, so in friendly recompense, you chuck his chin and kiss him again, and this time, boldly, you part your mouth, just a little, just a little, it is only a little sticky (you have shared pop and lollipops before, so it should not shock him,) but when you open your eyes, he has transformed in shade from ribbon bow to ripe strawberry.

Have you? Kissed anyone? you want to ask, but you know he would be very angry at you for asking that -- and besides, your English isn't excellent, and he'd be mean to you. The scout is smiling despite his pallor, boasting his prominent front teeth and dimples.

The men arranged around you, toppled in loose comradery together on the skinned sofa or idling around the rim of the domestic Saturn-aerie you repose in like a princess, you observe with relief, look more indulgent than impatient. You look at the engineer and his slow, kind smile wrapping around you feels like a security blanket. You feel less ashamed.

Emboldened, you close your eyes and demurely offer your mouth, and the scout -- that boy defined by effrontery, perhaps intending to impress you -- hands clutch the nape of your neck and your collar and he imposes his mouth on yours, spreads your lips, and slips his tongue which tastes strongly of Coca Cola across the rim of your teeth -- withdraws, watches you bumble and blush, and then again, the toil of his slipping, sweet tongue, the obscene warmth -- head at an angle, his sigh on your cheek, your teeth click as he navigates the firmament of your mouth, and you find you are falling practically into each others laps, your knees jumbled together, his betwixt yours blooming from his shorts narrow and white as bones, his breath returned from the furnace of you.

The murmur which ascends from the attending men causes something in your tummy to turn over, and you can't decide if you like it.

"You ready?" the scout asks, barely breathless and connected to you by a beaded string of saliva. His palm brushing your chest meets a bead and you are suddenly aware of the hard lump you feel laying very high on your inner thigh.

You don't know what you're ready for, but you smile, extremely sweetly, that he might know you intend to do your best.

You know the scout better than to expect decorum from him, so you aren't exactly shocked at the way he folds his hands over the crown of your head to force it down -- he pushes your face into the lump in the front of his trousers, into an intense carnal odor, like one might rub a dogs nose in its mess. You feel his very long legs cross over your shoulders and he lies back beneath you with a self-important snicker, trusting you know what to do.

In fact, you do. The prick you extract from the fly of his shorts is not as small as you had supposed. It's cute. You lick the tip inquisitively.

"You like that, huh?" he says -- whatever timidity he held of you you you see has been eclipsed by the intensity of his appetites. Closing your hand on him, you meet his eye over his flat abdomen as you close your mouth over the pink tip of him, examining the underside by your wandering tongue. His eyes and head roll away.

He is talking, but you don't concern yourself with that. You're very sure he's saying nothing of consequence. You descend slowly on his cock as daintily as if sipping from a teacup. It fits well in your mouth -- with your chin tucked into his fuzzy testicles, it just trespasses the pucker of your throat.

You arrange your jaw tightly, your attentive tissues tenderly around it and milk him -- frankly, you are not untalented.

"Fuck yeah," the scout chatters, and "oh shit," and "damn," and "Goddamn!"

Helpfully, his hands find your ears as he's becoming very eager, moving your mouth on him in the stuttering frantic rapidity he best prefers. When his time comes, you swallow a shot -- you can trace its heat and snappish brine its entire descent into your stomach -- but the squirming, ranting scout escapes your lips and your cheek and eye are marked.

The audience you'd almost forgotten you had emits a chorus of appreciative groans. Licking clean the corner of your mouth, you look around in time to witness the outcome of a silent game of rock paper scissors -- the winner is the sniper, who looks to you and chivalrously removes his hat.


End file.
